


Pique

by Shachaai



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-02-29
Packaged: 2018-05-24 01:30:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6136669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shachaai/pseuds/Shachaai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>England and France go pike-fishing in the English countryside, one a great deal more reluctantly than the other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pique

**Author's Note:**

> This is a pinch-hit for britons-will-never-be-slaves on tumblr, for the FrUK New Year's Gift Exchange 2016 and your prompt of England and France fishing. I'm sorry it's cutting so close to the deadline, even for a pinch-hit! This story went through a great many different incarnations and a lot of editing and major rewriting to end up at this, and I'm still not so sure how I got here.

"Why are we even attempting to catch a fish we have to throw back again?"

Francis has long since given up on actually sitting by his fishing rod, pacing a few steps away from his little set-up on the lakeshore with England to stretch the muscles in his legs. There is not much joy to be had in sitting in a cold foldable chair waiting for his fishing line to _twitch_ at him - even though the British weather is, for once, quite fine around them, the springtime sunshine a warm companion to the breeze rippling the lake's surface.

The only attention England seems to have paid to the weather - or anything other than his own motionless fishing rod - is seen in his outfit: a clinging t-shirt with an open neck showing off the freckles beginning to dot his arms and flutter back from his collarbone. Truly, the t-shirt (and the torso it encases) is about the only thing worth looking at, since England's jeans that day are unremarkable, and his tall, thick, and solidly pond-scum-coloured _wellies_ seem to be keeping out all amorous intent in the air as well as mud and water. It is _not_ an attractive look, in France's humble opinion. (Despite all his western neighbours' insistence, wellies and hiking boots are _never_ an attractive look.)

Luckily they are quite alone by the lakeside, else France would be forced to pace off a little further from England, so that people wouldn't think they know each other.

England doesn't rise from his little seat by his fishing rod, the hook cast in the water and the rod planted firmly in the ground, but he does lift his hands in the air over his head, stretching his back in a wildcat's arch. (Judging by the soft _crack_ noises it makes, it sounds like there might be architectural damage.) He rolls his neck back, looking rather lazily at where France is standing a few metres away with his arms primly folded over his chest. "You're actually _attempting_ to catch fish? I assumed you were just glaring at the water."

France makes a face straight back at him. "Plopping a little hook on an expensive piece of string into the water hardly seems to be working.” _Neither_ of them have caught any fish yet, but England, at least, has had a few nibbles on his line. “Sheer _hate_ gives me something to occupy myself with whilst _nothing is happening_." How had he let England talk him into a fishing trip? (Kisses had been involved. And France still being half-asleep when England had rolled out of their shared bed the previous morning.) Islands and primarily coastal Nations are always a little strange about the _fish_ thing.

"Plenty is happening," says England, dropping his hands again, and France sighs because the blond doesn’t even sound defensive about it.

Perhaps England is finally going (completely) mad. France steps closer to him, his own (old, but _much_ more fashionable) footwear shined clean by the dew still clinging to the grass. "I have often wondered, do we inhabit separate realms of existence? Because something might be happening _somewhere_ , Angleterre, but nothing is certainly happening _here_."

"If you'd stop _complaining_ , you might actually notice what _is_ happening here."

" _What_ , rosbif?" France gestures to the scenery around them: the rippling waters of the lake, the reeds around the edge swaying in the breeze, their chairs and blankets and food and nets and other fishing equipment. No great movement save for the clouds, no animals, and, most importantly on a fishing trip, _no signs of any fish_. A nice farm - growing crops, content animals - would be a much more romantic rustic environment. France _likes_ farms. " _What_ is happening? Because I see nothing."

"Yes, that always has been rather a failing of yours." England grins at France's disgusted snort - yes, France is going to treat that comment _and_ grin with the contempt they deserve. "Quiet down, would you? You're scaring off the fish."

_"There have been no fish."_

"Precisely my _point_ ," says England, and sounds smug enough about it that France would like to drop his fist on the other's head. It radiates from England, warmer than the sun, warmer than England's body heat that France can feel when standing so close.

"If my rod were not a gift from your brother, and if I did not _know_ I would have to endure his wounded tone for the next few decades if I broke it, you realise I would snap the thing over your skull, Angleterre? You know that, yes?"

England doesn't seem convinced or even threatened. (Then again, a fishing rod over the head is hardly one of the worst things France has threatened England with.) Rolling his eyes - the ingrate - England turns away from France, rummaging in the large bag set down beside his seat.

"Here," he holds up a small silver thermos flask to France, almost smacking it straight into France's stomach.

Kindly, France takes that to be an accident rather than petty retaliation. "...Are you tempting fate? I just threatened to beat you with a fishing rod and you hand me a blunt and heavy instrument." Flasks can do a great deal of damage to the cranium; France's British neighbours have used them as lethal weapons often enough. "Is this your tea? I would so _love_ to dent your head with your own tea."

England leans back in his seat, and then his head really _does_ end up on France's stomach, warm and solid and using him as a backrest. When he lifts his face up towards France's above him, France rests the cold base of the flask between England's defining eyebrows. "It's the remains of the bottle of wine we opened last night, actually."

"...You put _good wine_ in a _flask_?" England has _no_ class. _None_. But this is scraping the bottom of the proverbial barrel, since they had both been drinking their way through three bottles of delicious bordeaux the evening before, rich fruity reds to accompany the sweet pastries they had ended up licking from each other's fingertips. France can still taste the sweetness on his lips _now_ , though the strength gained from it slowly drains out of him at this revelation about his lover's dreadful habits. "I feel faint."

"If you die on the lakeshore," England blithely informs him, even as France uses the flask's base to start pushing England's fringe out of his eyes, "I'll use chunks of your corpse as fishbait."

 _That_ is worthy of England getting the flask dropped on his forehead again (though England is smiling when he says it, so France does it lightly). "You are so very awful; why did I ever agree to this." England is a fisher; France is a farmer, and never the twain should meet. Fishing is _incredibly_ dull; it is no wonder the British watercolourists painted such dreary lakeside landscapes. "Fish do not like me."

"Don't be absurd." England pulls away, and France finds himself missing the weight against his middle. So he goes to his long-since abandoned seat, pulling it just close enough to England's that they can sit companionably side by side, their arms pressed together, freckles against cloth and England's sharp wrist brushing France's thigh. It could be intimate, were it not for the topic. "They're _fish_. How do you suppose a fish is smart enough to dislike _anything_ , even if you can be particularly annoying?"

"They are _English_ fish. I'm quite sure they can manage it, out of principle." England's turn to snort (as though he could contradict the truth!), and France unscrews the flask's lid to take a swallow of the abused vintage within. A little alcohol does wonders for the soul, and it is hardly as though France wishes to leave _England_ the wine to do more unspeakable things to. Alcohol also makes France more contemplative, glancing out once more at the English countryside about them both.

The day is a peaceful one. Pike - they had come for pike, _brochet_ , the hard-fighting coarse fish they must release back into the lake if they ever actually manage to _catch_ one - stir in the water along with other fish, an occasional splash or strange ripple that cannot be explained by the wind, brought to the surface whilst the weather is mild and cool, an English springtime day long before the (supposed) heat of noon.

Though they have caught nothing, England seems content sitting beside France, lost in his own odd little thoughts. Were France to try to meet his eyes, he has no doubt England's gaze would be distant, green eyes as impossible to draw thoughts out of as their attempts to get pike out of the lake. (And there had _better_ be pike in the lake. France only has his host's word that there is.)

...Pretty. The scenery is pretty, and England is tolerable when he is not all prickles, but France would still prefer to be in his own countryside, with his dark vineyards and golden fields, chickens clucking contentedly as they roost. It feels more _productive_ , more like something is actually _happening_ \- and if they could both abandon the countryside altogether and abscond to a soft bed where they have both forgotten their clothing, something even _more_ would be happening for both of them.

But this is this and that is that. France could kick England's fishing rod over and spoil the fishing trip entirely, but _that_ would hardly get him more wine and agreeable company that evening, nor the peaceful quiet that has descended between him and England right now.

...That will not stop France complaining though, even as he lets the air rush out of his chest in a sigh and drops his head on England's shoulder. "...Despite wanting to murder you right now, _cher_ ," gently, "I feel I must congratulate you." This morning, England has stolen the body wash France had put in the shower for his visit; France can smell it against his neck. " This is possibly the worst date I have ever been on."

And France has lived long enough to have, quite unfortunately, gone a great many dreadful dates.

"You misrepresent your own failings over the centuries," England says, his tone dry but not offended enough to shove France off of his shoulder. His breath stirs France's hair, making it tickle France's nose. "We have had so many awful dates, and all when _you_ were the one who had the most hand in their organisation."

 _That_ is a slight against French honour. France lifts his head himself, wounded. "Name _one_!"

England doesn't even pause, glancing at him. "That time in Versailles, when we fell over the goddamn balcony?"

...Ah. "...You will have to be more specific."

"We landed in the sculpted _shrubbery_."

"Oh!" France recalls the incident. A masquerade ball - and perhaps the only thing he and England had kept on _were_ the masks, both of them bruised for a fortnight afterwards and England losing one of his apparently most expensive shoes. The scratches caused by the plants had _almost_ been as bad as the scratches caused by, first, England's passion, and second, by England's temper. (Or perhaps the two things are one and the same.) "That time was not so bad; we both achieved the heights of our mutual pleasure before we tumbled."

"' _Tumbled_ '?" England hits a high note in his incredulity, bringing forth the grudge he has clearly nursed lovingly for a few centuries. "You came and then _you dropped me_!"

Insouciant, France waves his hand, dismissing the comment and the memory. "And you pulled me down with you - as is your way, you are a vindictive soul, through and through - so what is your complaint?"

"We landed in _shrubbery_ , France. I wasn't wearing britches!"

And France had had _open_ britches, so the experience had been a painful one for both of them. Quite an unpleasant crash straight after orgasm. "You have wiped your arse with worse things that expensive leaves before, mon _chéri_." Thank God for modern sanitation and its accoutrements. "Or are you speaking about that twig that has been up your sweet backside ever since?"

England's brows draw down together like oncoming thunder-clouds. "The only _twig_ I've had the misfortune of having anywhere near that area is a certain overglorified French appendage."

"' _Overglorified_ '-!" France draws himself up so indignantly he almost falls off his own seat, sticking his elbow into England's ribs. "You were not saying that last _night_."

England sniffs at him, and pointedly moves his own seat away. "Maybe I was. Maybe you just didn't hear it over your own ego."

"My _ego_?" How _dare_ he. "My ego is _insignificant_ compared to how loudly you were moaning my name, mon _chou_. And as you insist, I have a _large_ ego." Viciously, France pitches his voice an octave higher than its usual timbre, breathily mimicking some of the dialogue he had heard the night before whilst tangled up with his host in England's bed. "Oh _France_. Oh, oh - oh, _please_ , France - _s'il te plaît_ , France, _France_ -"

" _Fuck you_ ," England hisses, going scarlet.

"Yes," says France, "I believe you said _that_ as well," and laughs when England swipes at him and misses, France dodging the first blow and catching England when the other lunges for him. It is easy to do, since England had come from such a poor starting position so folded up in his foldable seat.

Already off-balance, it only takes a little tug on England's arm to have England stumbling into France's lap, hot with his own anger and putting up more fight than all the fish in the lake. But he is hooked, quite thoroughly, and though, when Francis first kisses him, he _bites_ , by the time France's mouth is reddening England has been convinced enough to at least stop slamming the stubborn heel of his wellies into France's aching calf. His arms loop around France's neck as though they have always belonged there, his kisses turning pleasantly deep and distracting enough that France doesn't even _care_ \- that much - that their squabbling has planted England's particularly pointy elbow in his poor diaphragm.

" _S'il te plaît_?" France offers in a teasing murmur one more time, when they part for breath, their noses still bumping and the wickedness of their expressions still hid by the strands of hair caught between amorous fingers, over their eyes.

"You," says England, his lips still brushing against France's when he speaks, when he breathes. England makes his threats as softly as a lover might whisper endearments in bed on a summer morning. (England _makes_ some of his threats in a soft voice, in bed with his lovers on summer mornings.) "Your corpse. _Fishbait_."

"European Union mandates about water pollution," France reminds him, and is smiling again when England kisses him, hard as though England is trying to bruise a permanent gag into France's lips.

Just so, the 'fishing trip' takes a turn for the better, France's little seat holding up remarkably with the weight of around four millennia and two fully grown men bearing down upon it. The scenery feels _much_ more picturesque with a much more amiable England within it, within France's grasp, trading lazy kisses back and forth whilst France skims his palm up England's t-shirt, England's fingers scratching over France's stubble and tracing it down his jaw, his throat, down the collar of his shirt near his nape when the skin is so warm and France's pulse jumps hot.

...At least, until England breaks off the kissing, looking to the side like an embarrassed virgin.

"My rod is twitching."

How _sweet_. France smiles widely, wrapping his arms around his host a little more firmly. "Oh, I love it when you are frank about these things -" He follows England's gaze, trying to catch the other's eyes again to reel him back in - only to notice that England is looking at the lake. Or, more specifically, at his fishing rod planted on the lake-side, whose line is beginning to jump with something caught on the end. "Oh." England begins clambering off of his lap. "Are you seriously leaving me for a _fish_?"

England leaves him for a fish, grabbing his rod just as the line begins to _pull_. "I'm barely a few steps away."

"Each step is a _league_ when it comes to matters of _amour_ , Angleterre!"

England is _thoroughly_ occupied with his fishing rod, beginning to try and reel whatever he has hooked in. "I always knew that I was leagues above you, France, but would you care to repeat that when we have witnesses?"

"Exhibitionist," France mutters, and rakes his hair back out of his face. Not that he disapproves of exhibitionism in the _slightest_ , but he is feeling petulant about being left for a _fish_. England loathes to have his own vices pointed out to him, and they have a long history of scoring as many small victories against each other that they can. The rod jerks in England's hands. "...You seem to have hooked a rather energetic one."

 _France's_ own fishing rod is still as limp as England's apparent interest in making sweet love with wild abandon on the lakeshore. Which is a tragedy, because England _had_ been so invested before - a little tussle appeals to the masochist within him - and the pretty day is actually developing into a beautiful one. (For England.) There is even _sun_ to warm their skin, golden rays to bask them in a cradle of their clothes and blankets amongst the draping roots of nearby trees.

Why couldn't they have gone for a _picnic_ instead of a fishing trip? Picnics are romantic. Even with stodgy (at best) British food to eat, when the weather is fine, and the company plied with good wine and warmth and pretty scenery when they are alone, a picnic can be a stirring romantic rendezvous. Whilst lake fishing for coarse fish is still a more appealing idea than going out onto the _freezing_ cold North Sea, and _slightly_ more interesting than using a net to fish, it is still _fishing_. To be left for those peculiar people who _like_ fishing, and not their poor suffering paramours.

England's feet shift in the dew-damp grass, trying to find a firmer footing as whatever is caught on the end of his line pulls him towards the lake. He _slips_ when there is a particularly vicious tug, an objection to the reel in seconds before, and France is up out of his seat before he has even truly thought about it, wrapping his arms around England's waist from behind to hold him steady.

Naturally, England takes it the wrong way. _"France -"_

The position of their bodies is suggestive, but also practical. "Do you _want_ your bite to pull you into the lake?" France will have none of it. Especially because he knows that if England _does_ go in, England will then do his level best to get France's nice clothes wet and muddy as well. Out of principle. "You have an interesting assortment of... dubiously-titled _styles_ , mon coeur, but _drowned rat_ is not one of your better ones."

England's fight with his bite continues, now steadied by France behind him. Whatever is on the end of the line does _not_ wish to be reeled ashore, swimming erratically and pulling fiercely enough that England must wait a while between his reels to avoid the tension snapping his line. Slowly, _slowly_ \- apparently nothing in fishing happens fast, even when something _is_ (finally) happening - the catch is brought closer, closer, France murmuring encouragement as England calls his own native wildlife several unsavoury names until England _at last_ has the fish close enough to shore that France lets England go so he can grab the net.

And, when it is at last in the true shallows and close, into the net the fish - for it _is_ a fish (one can never be too careful about hooking strange unidentifiable monsters in English waters) - goes with a great deal of angry splashing, France quickly lifting up the net rim so the fish is still in the water, but quite, quite trapped.

" _Caught_ ," he says, quite triumphantly, because this is _their_ fish now, the first either of them has caught that day, and it was a joint effort.

England comes closer, leaning on France's shoulder so he can peer into the net. "...It's not a pike."

It's not? France actually _looks_ at the fish they have caught - and, whilst he sees the greenish colour a pike should have, the fish is far too small, striped with dark lines rather than spotted with lightness. Its head is quite _soft_ looking, rather than the sharp point shaped like a weapon, and it's teeth...

"It's a perch," says England, as though France hasn't eaten enough of the fish to know that.

And they had come for _pike_. English fish are _awful_.

France looks to the heavens for succour. If God isn't listening, surely one of the old deities from the days of their mothers must still be out there _somewhere_ , the many wild goddesses of the rivers and lakes and streams and wells. "...That means we have to _stay_ , doesn't it?"

For a moment, he had hoped they could leave early. Perhaps go back to England's home, for a nice lunch?

England hands him the fishing rod to hold, his face creasing up in unconscious hurt. "...Do you hate this _that_ much?"

...Oh, France has _never_ (well, hardly ever) been able to disappoint that sort of face, too many memories of a wide-eyed child clutching at his tunic haunting the years. So he sighs. In his _soul_. And then forces a smile brighter and more lascivious than he feels, willing to entertain a little boredom for England, who is _trying_ to be a good host and a good lover and do something different with France to keep them both entertained. (England may have points for effort.) "Not when I get to save you from a watery splash like I did before."

England's flush of before returns, but so much softer and pleased than before, and he turns aside to hide it as he checks the unhooking mat and tub are set up correctly, crouching down at their side. "...We can keep the perch, if you want. Have it for dinner."

"I cook," says France, because he will not compromise on _that_. "You do the washing up."

"I am _perfectly capable_ of -"

" _Angleterre_ ," France says, cutting his companion off before England can get onto his usual impressive spiel of self-denial about his lack of anything even approaching culinary talent. When he is quite certain England has been silenced - however temporarily - he continues: "I am _fishing_. With you. You have got me _fishing_. You get _one_ miracle per decade, and this was that."

"...Cooking fish is far too fiddly anyway," says England, and puffs up his cheek until France brings the net over and drops the net and perch ungracefully enough into the tub that half the water splashes up and hits England in the face.

The scenery of the day just _keeps_ on getting better.

**Author's Note:**

> Whilst pike are considered _game fish_ in North America, the only game fish in the UK are salmon, trout and char. Other freshwater fish are called _coarse fish._ Pike is still considered a major sporting fish in Great Britain and Ireland, but they are frequently caught just for the sport and then released alive. (It is considered poor show to do otherwise, unless you are in an area that allows you to take the fish away, and even _then_ a lot of privately maintained pike fishing spots will only allow you to take one fish per session.) This is so that the sport will remain unthreatened for the future, and to maintain both the pike population in the islands, as well as the populations of the smaller fish that pike feed on.
> 
> ...Yes, the title of this fic is a terrible bilingual pun. Sorry, not sorry.


End file.
